The List

The day of my father, Steve Sullivan’s, funeral had to be sunny, of course. He wouldn’t have had it any other way. He lit up every room he entered with his bright smile, his kind eyes, and his infectious, silly humor. His Dad jokes were notorious. The only time I ever saw him cry was when my mother died. The irony of her being a neurologist and developing inoperable brain cancer wasn’t lost on my brother, sister, and me.

Dad held on for 18 years after she left us. He kept himself busy at his Miami architectural firm to the end. My dad believed firmly in making a living doing what one loves. He would ask me, “Rosy, what makes you happiest?”

My answer was always, “Reading,” so he first suggested I try my hand at writing, but I didn’t like how tedious it was. He suggested editing, but I didn’t like the idea of changing words on which someone else had labored. Nor did I want to be an actress. Finally, he asked, “What about becoming a librarian?” His idea resonated with me, so I majored in library science, and now I run the children’s section of the Miami Public Library. I get to read and introduce kids to all my favorite books and authors and get paid for it.

As for my older brother, Chris, when he was young, he was obsessed with dressing me up and doing my hair. No one was surprised when he went to beauty school. No one was happier for him when he proposed to his boyfriend, Rick, than our dad. Well, other than my sister and me.

My younger sister, Cheryl’s passion is cooking. After acing culinary school and meeting her husband in pastry class, they opened Cheryl’s Bistro. Their place repeatedly gets great reviews.

The three of us siblings had a meeting with Dad’s lawyer three days after the funeral. None of us could afford to buy out the others’ shares of his estate, so we planned to sell it and split everything evenly.

Mr. Charles Brubaker’s secretary ushered us to a posh conference room and said, “There’s bottled water in the mini fridge and a coffee and tea station there.” She gestured extravagantly. I barely kept from laughing because she looked like Vanna White, and I was thinking about buying a vowel. It didn’t help that I noticed Chris turn away, also suppressing laughter, with a hand clamped over his mouth. The lady, oblivious to our amusement, continued, “Mr. Brubaker will be here shortly.” She left as we sprinted to the coffee.

True to her word, the balding lawyer arrived just as we all sat with our cups.

“Good morning,” he began. “I’m sorry about your father. He was a good man.” We all nodded. He continued, “As you know, he also had a sense of humor.” We looked at each other nervously while Mr. Brubaker fussed with his briefcase. He pulled out a white book with a satin cover and a folder. As he set the book down, I noticed that it said, “Wedding Guests” on the front, with Mom and Dad’s names embroidered.

Mr. Brubaker said, “Your dad wanted the three of you to work together to solve a puzzle. I was told explicitly that I am to only give you two things. They are this wedding guest registry…” He pulled a paper out of the folder and continued, “…and this list. It includes instructions to get you started. When you have the object at the conclusion of your search, he said you would know. Then, I will share his will with you.”

The three of us sat motionless, dumbfounded. Finally, Chris started laughing and we all joined in. When we quieted down, Chris said, “This is certainly Dad’s style. May we see the list?”

Mr. Brubaker set it on the table. We gathered around, noticing Dad had used his typical hand printing rather than typing. The paper read:

Chery whispered, “Could he have been more cryptic?”

Chris chimed in with a confident nod, “We’ll figure it out. We have Rosy and her book smarts.”

Mr. Brubaker said, “I made a copy of this, but you have the original. Take the time you need. You have my card. Text my cell when you’re ready. I may be as curious about where this is leading as you three.” He started for the door and then turned back. “One more thing. Your dad said to tell you to have fun.” He smirked as he left.

“Well,” Cheryl began, “To state the obvious, guests must mean from their wedding.” She grabbed the registry and started paging through.

Chris said, “Architects must be Dad’s co-workers, and the neurologist is Mom. The referee is probably Uncle John. The Diva?” He smiled.

We all chorused, “Aunt Barb.”

Chris added affectionately, “She’s a bigger diva than me, and that’s saying something!”

I said, “But who are the entertainers? Wedding musicians? How are we supposed to know who they were? And what do these people have in common, other than Mom and Dad?”

“Hold on, I’ve got something here!” Cheryl set the book down so we could see. “There’s a phone number added after the name Stan Livingston. Who wants to call?”

“I’ll do it,” I said, pulling out my cell phone. I dialed and put it on speaker.

After three rings, we heard, “Hello, this is Stan. To whom am I speaking?”

I said, “You probably don’t know me. I’m Rose Sullivan...”

“Oh, yes!” he interrupted, “Steve’s daughter. I saw you at the funeral. My sincere condolences.”

“Thank you, Mr. Livingston. This may sound strange, but I found your number in Mom and Dad’s wedding guestbook.”

There was an awkward silence. Then Stan chortled. “Your dad told me one of you would call after he died. Did you know your parents and I were all in the high school band together?”

The gaping expressions from my siblings proved they were as much in the dark. I responded, “No, what did you all play?”

“Your mom played the clarinet, your dad and I both played saxophone. She was always turning around and smiling at him, but that dufus took forever to ask her out. I could tell you stories, but I’m sure you’d like to hear what your dad told me to tell you. Better write this down. It’s a number.”

Cheryl handed me a notebook and pencil. She always carried writing materials in case she was hit with an inspiration for a recipe. I said, “I’m ready.”

“I hope you figure out what it means, because I don’t know. It’s 32912.”

I signed off and said, “The first thing that comes to mind is a zip code. Chris, will you see if I’m right?”

He checked on his phone. He exclaimed, “It’s Melbourne! That’s where Aunt Barb lives. Road trip! I’ll drive.”

Cheryl called our aunt as we rode the elevator to the lobby. I could hear her without the speaker. Cheryl held the phone away from her ear as Barb shrieked, “Darlings! I’ve been waiting for your call. I’ve got a mysterious box my crazy brother asked me to give you. Come on up. I’ll serve you mimosas and finger sandwiches.”

Rush hour in Miami is notoriously horrific, but luckily, Mr. Livingston’s office was on the north end, so we got out rather quickly.

Aunt Barb greeted us all with kisses on both cheeks. Her mimosas were delicious, made with fresh orange juice and quality champagne. The sandwiches were tasty too, with seafood and cucumbers. She relayed the story of when our dad, as a kid, opened and rewrapped all the Christmas gifts, just to claim that he was psychic.

We laughed and cried with her. Finally, she brought out a wooden box with a paddle lock.

I asked, “What are the chances the same numbers are the combination? Cheryl, what are they again?”

Cheryl squealed, “Ooo, let me try.” She stuck her tongue out as she concentrated. “32-9-12.”

The lock clicked open. Chris clapped excitedly. Cheryl took out a piece of paper. She read:

Cheryl clicked her tongue. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I took the paper. “This last sentence is acrostic, literally spelling acrostic." I snapped my fingers. "Let me see the list again.”

Cheryl pulled it out of the folder, and I looked for the first letters.

“Of course! He said, ‘First of all.’ The first letters spell “GARDEN.” Look! The last letters of the last four words spell east, with SS in front. We need to search the southeast corner of Dad’s garden.”

Chris teased, “Nice work, Sherlica! You know, like Sherlock, but…”

Cheryl put her right hand on her hip and tapped her left fingers on the table. Chris asked sheepishly, “But we’re spending the night here, as we promised Aunt Barb, right?”

We did spend the night with our dear aunt. That evening, we played a card game and a dice game, frequently imitating “dadisms.”

The next morning, we drove to Dad’s place. We could smell the ocean air not far from his backyard. We held hands through the house as we shared memories. We headed to the garden, stopping at the shed to grab a toolbox and a shovel, just in case. Before long, we were following the steppingstones Mom had personally placed, leading to the banyan tree with the swing. We all remembered getting repeatedly photographed upon it.

Next to the tree was a new flagpole with Dad’s Navy flag on it. We joined hands around it for a moment of silence.

Chris blurted, “There’s a door at the base of the pole stand.” He opened it and pulled out a framed photo of our family about a year before Mom passed. On the back was one last note.

By the time we finished reading it, we were all in tears. We formed a sobbing group hug.

***

We kept the home and we rent it out sparingly with the help of a property manager. We meet there three times a year without fail – Independence Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and sometimes for birthdays.

This journey underscored two truths we already knew:

1. Family is important.

2. We’ve got a great one, flaws and all.